


I Knew You, Once

by damthosefandoms



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU, Robin: Son of Batman (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst, Gen, aka i got the utrh comic for christmas and lost my shit and here's a fic, also i want damian to know more about the lazarus pit is that too much to ask, and also like. damian's been raised to kill that's so messed up, but i guess it's not as like... cute as it could be, damian knew about jason before the pit, i dont think this necessarily has a HAPPY ending but it's not sad it's just how canon is, i want more of borderline lazarus pit magical damian please thanks dc, jason never said a word after he came back until damian comes into the picture, jason's kinda lost it in this one but to be fair he's a zombie so it's to be expected, or something, the robin son of batman comics said his blood can open a passage in a volcano to a magical place, yeah it's one of those shh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21991735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damthosefandoms/pseuds/damthosefandoms
Summary: Damian al Ghul is seven years old when he meets Jason Todd. Damian Wayne is ten years old when he meets his older brother. Maybe that's all we need to know.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Comments: 24
Kudos: 589





	I Knew You, Once

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this in two hours bc i got utrh for christmas and can't stop thinking about the fact that damian mustve met jason at some point. but i dont think they were close. i think damian just... didn't know how much family he really had for a long time. i dunno. destiny told me she wished i would write this so i did and i have no other explanation sorry
> 
> update (9/16/2020): I’ve edited this fic a bunch bc I was rereading it and was like “huh. this isn’t written as great as I remember” so anyway if you’re reading this now: I originally wrote & posted this fic on December 27, 2019; but I’m updating the day it was posted bc I kind of totally fixed it since then so yeah. ANYWAY ENJOY

Damian al Ghul is seven years old when he meets Jason Todd.

It’s not on purpose. It’s late at night and he can’t sleep, so he’s wandering the halls. His mother had been away from their actual home for a while and just recently brought him to live out here, so he figures it’s important to get the lay of the land. He’s doing what he can to try to avoid the ~~glorified babysitters~~ guards his mother has watching his every move, making sure he doesn’t get into trouble—or, more accurately, that he doesn’t stumble upon something he isn’t supposed to see.

It’s a little too late for that. Damian’s young, but he’s been trained well; almost too well, considering not even his own family can seem to notice him when he’s hiding in the shadows. He’s always sneaking around, learning things he isn’t supposed to know; for example, he’s heard his mother and grandfather arguing about her new _pet._

Apparently, no one outside the two of them are aware of it yet. But Damian is sneaky and observant; he knows a little bit about what's going on.

Something terrible (Damian isn’t quite sure what) happened to some boy who is clearly of some importance to his mother and grandfather. Everyone who has any inkling of this information outside the two of them (and Damian) is dead, and for a reason. According to Talia, the boy doesn't talk. He's seemingly brain-dead in all but his animal impulses. He’s trained so well that even the greatest mentors Talia could find are practically useless when it comes to teaching him—and he’s so lethal that she’s running out of options.

He’s physically damaged, too. Damian’s overheard his grandfather claim that whatever happened to the boy had injured his head so badly that he’ll never be more than “an unthinking, emotionless shell.” 

Damian doesn’t know what exactly is going on, but he doesn’t like it.

He’s walking down a hallway he hasn’t been down before when he hears a crash in a room a few feet away. He walks towards the door. It’s open just a crack, and he looks inside.

There’s a boy there, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old. It's dark, so Damian can’t really make out his face, but the candlelight gives him enough light to tell that he’s got messy black hair parted by a nasty-looking scar. The boy is still as a statue, his attention fixed on the remains of what seems to have been a picture frame.

Damian leans forward to try to make out the photo, but accidentally pushes the door open a bit in his attempt. The boy’s head snaps up towards him. Damian freezes for a second. That speed, that stiffness—it’s unnatural. Creepy. Almost... _haunted_.

Damian _knows_ haunted. He doesn’t question it.

The boy stares at him, but doesn’t show any sign of aggression, so Damian seizes the opportunity. He steps into the room and pulls the door shut behind him, but he doesn’t close it all the way; he’s vulnerable right now and he knows it. Damian’s been trained to know better than to put himself in an enclosed space. The windows are barred, probably to keep the boy from escaping, so the door is the only option for escape if need be. 

The boy keeps his eyes on Damian as he walks forward and brushes away the broken glass covering the floor. Damian picks up the photo. 

It’s of a man with two teenage boys. The taller boy has darker skin than the shorter one, and neither look exactly like the man, but they all share the same hair and eye color. They’re clearly some sort of family. Damian’s not sure how the picture got here, but he glances between the shorter boy in the photo and the boy standing in front of him. They’re clearly the same person. Dark hair, blue eyes, same faded scar across the temple. But it’s strange. In the picture, the boy looks happy, full of life, not… 

Not like the ghost standing in front of him.

For some reason, that’s not what Damian focuses on. He keeps looking at the man in the picture. He’s _seen_ those facial features before, _knows_ that look on the man’s face. If you replaced the eye and skin color, Damian could swear he’s looking at an older version of himself.

“…Bruce.”

It’s barely more than a whisper, but despite himself, Damian jumps. The boy had _spoken;_ Talia said he didn’t _do_ that.

“What?”

The boy just stares at the picture in Damian’s hands, his fists clenched. His eyes are clouded. It’s as if Damian isn’t even there.

“Bruce.”

“Who’s Br—” Damian cuts himself off when he hears voices down the hall. He stuffs the photo into his pocket.

Hopefully this was a one time thing, and the freak won’t spill to his mother that Damian took it. He has a feeling the boy won’t be speaking again—at least, not for a while.

Damian slips back into the hallway, melting back into the shadows around him. He can’t be caught here, not now. If his grandfather gets word that Damian was talking to that boy, then, well...

He takes one final glance back towards the door.

If Damian gets caught now, he might very well end up in a similar state.

A few days later, Damian wakes up from his own nightmares to the sound of screaming.

It’s not like screaming is a rare occurrence, here; the sounds of people being tortured and killed has somehow become almost a lullaby to Damian over the years. But this? This kind of screaming is different. This kind of screaming is something Damian can’t exactly describe, but knows all too well.

Despite himself, he gets out of bed.

He knows he’s not supposed to care about the well-being of others. He tells himself it’s just curiosity, and he’s looking for the source to put it out of its misery, like a dying animal (the thought of which makes him sick, but god forbid his mother or grandfather ever find that out).

Deep down, Damian knows it’s because he really _is_ worried about the person screaming.

He follows the sound to the same room from before. It’s the boy—he’s screaming in his sleep. Damian slips through the doorway.

So the boy gets nightmares, too. Somehow, the thought that Damian’s not alone is comforting.

But he doesn’t know what to do now. He doesn't know how to _help._ Every bone in his body is screaming for Damian to _act,_ to do _something_ to help this boy be okay again. To make him happy. To help him.

But he hears his mother’s voice echoing in his head, telling him to leave now and let the boy suffer. He hears his grandfather, demanding that Damian put the freak out of his misery and end his life. But Damian can’t bring himself to do that. Something inside him, deep down, stops him; he’s starting to realize for the first time in his life that while he may be rotten, it _definitely_ isn’t to the core.

He looks down the hallway, both ways. He waits and listens for his mother, for guards, for voices, footsteps, breathing, something, _anything_ —but there’s nothing _._ No one else is coming.

This poor teenage boy is suffering, and no one else _cares._

Damian shuts the door. Locks it. He walks up to the bed. The boy had stopped screaming, but his face is scrunched up tight—Damian can tell that whatever this nightmare is about, he’s in a _lot_ of pain. Damian wonders for a second if _he_ looks like that when _he’s_ dreaming. 

He grabs an unused pillow from the other side of the bed, and readies himself for a fight. If his grandfather’s words are true—and they usually are—the boy’s fight or flight impulses usually lean towards fight. It’s _always_ better to be prepared.

He swings the pillow straight down onto the older boy’s head.

If Damian hadn’t had such good reflexes, the boy would’ve slit his throat with the knife hidden under his pillow. It's truly unnerving how fast the boy is. 

Despite everything, Damian disarms the boy easily—clearly he’s _capable_ of fighting, maybe even better than Damian himself, but there’s something that stops him from attacking again.

Maybe it’s because Damian’s starting to realize this boy isn’t all _there._ Maybe it’s because in the dark, armed with nothing more than a pillow, Damian looks just like the seven-year-old child he really is. Maybe the boy just doesn’t see him as a threat.

(By all means, he _should_ feel threatened—Damian could kill this boy at least four different ways with just this pillow alone, but he shoves that thought aside.)

The boy just stands there and stares at him. Damian glares back.

The boy flinches at Damian’s glare. It’s so, _so_ familiar to the boy, but he doesn’t know _why._

Damian takes a deep breath. 

“You were screaming,” He says, taking a step back. His hands are up in front of him, as if he were surrendering, but his feet are apart and he’s fully balanced. Damian's ready to fall right into the fighting stance that comes so naturally for him at a moment’s notice. The boy doesn’t seem to be planning an attack, but… you never know.

“It woke me up. I prefer not to be waken up.”

Damian readies his pillow.

The boy’s eyes are clouded over. It’s like he’s stuck in a memory. Damian’s backing slowly towards the door, ready to run for it, when he hears that same raspy whisper of someone who hasn’t spoken in a long time... and probably shouldn’t be now. 

“Woken,” the boy says.

Damian stiffens. “What?”

“Woken. Not, waken, woken, i-it’s proper grammar. Prop—” The boy stops. He shakes his head, pulls at his hair. He looks frustrated. Unfocused. 

Damian takes a quick breath. The boy is not all there. He's dangerous. Damian shouldn't be here. This was a bad idea.

Suddenly the boy looks straight at him, clouded blue eyes meeting the supernatural, glowing green ones that every al Ghul has.

“Woken. Woken up, woke up, shouldn’t have—died, dead, buried, alive, living—” Damian moves closer to the door. The boy is pacing, now, and as he speaks he’s letting out some hysterical, humorless, _soulless_ laugh. 

Damian’s starting to understand now. He glances around the room. Damian shouldn't have come back here. This boy shouldn't be here at all.

“Woke up in, in the—the _grave_ —buried, deep deep _deep_ down, _a goddamn fucking_ **_corpse,_** _that’s what I am_ —dead, I’m dead, I’m dead dead dead—” 

The boy collapses to the ground in some terrifying mix of laughing and sobbing, and Damian _runs._ He’s halfway down the hall, hidden away in the shadows, when he sees his mother running into the room. 

But it doesn't matter. Damian _knows_ now.

His family is _known_ for dealing with death, for avoiding it, for embracing it, for coming _back_ from it. For coming back from the _edge,_ as far as anyone on the outside knows, but _Damian_ knows differently.

For some reason, the pit never affected their family—their _bloodline_ —like it did others. 

His mother shouldn’t be messing with _this._ Not with this boy, who isn’t family, who can't handle it like _they_ can. No _wonder_ his grandfather is so angry with his mother. Damian’s heard her talking. He _knows_ what she’s planning, and now he knows the _how_ and the _who_ and maybe he doesn’t fully understand the _why,_ but—

_But something deep inside him is telling him he can’t let this boy go through that._

Damian al Ghul is _not_ an average child. He knows what it’s like to feel your life fade away from you, and maybe he never exactly remembers those few minutes of the _Between_ before he wakes up in that glowing green pool, but he can recognize it. He’s been raised—no, _trained_ to know death better than he knows himself. 

Damian’s only been here at this new home for a few days, but he knows his mother’s been hiding this boy away for a few months at the very least. He’s overheard countless arguments between his mother and his grandfather about it. They never knew he was listening in. They don’t think he even knows the boy _exists._

But Damian does know, and he kind of wishes now that he didn't.

A few days later, Damian sees his mother taking the boy away. He watches from the shadows as she pushes him into the very same Lazarus Pit that Damian’s own soul has been touched by countless times before. The same Lazarus Pit his grandfather is currently using to revive himself, to keep himself _immortal._

Damian watches as the boy’s soul is truly returned to him, but it’s not the same now. It’ll never be the same. It’s cursed, just like Damian is and just like everyone else in their family. He watches as the boy’s eyes flash between his normal icy blue and Damian’s own supernatural green—the same color as the waters of the Pit.

Damian follows his mother as she pulls the boy out and runs. He watches her shove the boy off the cliff. He’s too far away to really hear anything she says to the boy, but he’s able to make out one word before the boy is gone forever: “Jason.”

His grandfather isn’t happy, afterwards. He forces Damian and his mother to leave for the time being, to go far away to another home hidden from the world where the League can do their business from. 

All thoughts of the boy leave his mind after a few weeks, but Damian never really forgets him.

Years later, his mother brings him to Gotham. Damian meets his father and stares into the same face from that picture he’d seen long ago.

He meets Dick Grayson. The older boy from the photo.

Damian sees the glass case in the Batcave, honoring a lost family member, who isn’t even all that lost.

Damian hides the picture he’s been keeping for so long away in his bedroom at the Manor.

When the Red Hood tries to kill him upon their first meeting, Damian isn’t surprised. He knows that the Pit’s magic always works a little _too_ well.

Damian Wayne is ten years old when he meets Jason Todd.


End file.
